


The Red of Wine

by ELISE_ELEVEN



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Sex, POV Sansa Stark, POV Tyrion Lannister, Queen in the North, Romance, Soulmates, game of thrones season 8, the final episode, we didn't see it but it 100 happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-09 01:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18906493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ELISE_ELEVEN/pseuds/ELISE_ELEVEN
Summary: Sansa sits alone in the great hall, relaxing before the great hearth. Finally, she can relax. The wars are over and won, the Long Night and the Great War. Tomorrow she’ll be leaving for Winterfell, and soon after, she will be crowned Queen in the North.The warm flickering lights reflect on the dark surface of the wine in her goblet. The red of the wine. The red of the flames. The red in her hair. And the red on her lips.“I thought I was the one who got drunk and brooded alone in dark halls.”





	1. The Last of the Pack;The Last of the Pride

The warm flickering lights reflect on the dark surface of the wine in her goblet. The red of the wine. The red of the flames. The red of her hair. And the red of her lips. The only sound is crackling of burning wood and her fingernails clicking on the sleek metal glass.

Sansa sits alone in the great hall, relaxing before the great hearth. Finally, she can relax. The wars are over and won, the Long Night and the Great War; they all seem like distant memories. Though it was only days ago that she and her siblings arrived in King’s Landing. It had been only two days since her little brother, Bran, and been named King. 

She knows there is little point in letting herself relax. Tomorrow she’ll be leaving for Winterfell, and soon after, she will be crowned Queen in the North. This is only the beginning of her long work, for when trouble arises, as it always does, she will have to protect her people; she will have to do better than those who came before. But right now, just for tonight, she lets the heavy weight slip from her shoulders and stretches her legs in the warmth. 

“I thought I was the one who got drunk and brooded alone in dark halls.”

Sansa hadn’t noticed the door at the other end of the hall opening and shutting quietly. She takes a long draft of wine and grins to herself. “Well you’d better hurry up and catch up. I’ve already two glasses on you. You wouldn’t want anyone to steal your title.” 

Small footsteps continue behind her until Tyrion appears at her side. He pours himself a glass pulls a chair over to sit beside her. 

They both stare into the flames, content in the comfortable silence. 

Tyrion dares a glance in her direction. The red of her hair. The red of her lips. The red of the flames dancing in her eyes. Red. A color he swore he’d never wear again, is suddenly looking very appealing. Sansa catches his eyes, and he quickly preoccupies himself with fishing a phantom a hair out of his goblet. 

Even after his eyes have turned away, Sansa’s gaze holds. She studies him; his unruly golden curls, his wine-flushed lips, the scar carved through the length of his face. She wonders what he’ll look like the next time she sees him. It could be years. Will his gold have turned to grey? Will he smile when he sees her? Will the years of service to the crown have worn him down and faded the light in his eyes?

“So, you leave for the North tomorrow?”

“Yes”, she clears her throat. “At daybreak.”

Tyrion nods, his eyes fixed on the glittering coals before them. “A shame. I’ll hate to see you go.”

He meets her eyes and finds them tinged with emotion. 

“But”, he continues, “You will be a great Queen. I know it. I believe it. You will be the greatest Queen Westeros has ever seen.”

“I’m not so sure.” Sansa replies dryly. 

“I am.” They lock eyes and he searches her gaze earnestly. “I would have chosen you for Queen of all the Kingdoms, if I knew you’d take it.” 

Sansa laughs, but Tyrion’s expression remains serious. “I mean it. I believe in you, and maybe I’m not the best judge, based on past experiences, but I know you were meant to be a wise and gracious ruler.”

With a lump in her throat, Sansa leans in to press a warm palm to his forearm and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you. That does make me feel better.”

He grins at her and then his eyes flicker down to her hand on his arm. Red creeps into her cheeks and she slowly withdraws the hand and places it awkwardly in her lap. She takes a long drink and fixes her gaze on the fire.

“This reminds me old times.” Tyrion chuckles to himself a few moments later. “Look at us; the last of the Starks and the Last of the Lannister’s, together in the Red Keep once again. This is where we had our wedding feast. Do you remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget”, she smirks. “You got disgracefully drunk and then, if I remember correctly, you threatened Joffrey with a knife and said he would need a wooden cock for his own wedding night, if he insisted on the bedding ceremony.” 

Tyrion splutters and nearly chokes on his wine. “One of my finer moments, to be sure.” He coughs and pats away at the wine he’d spilled down his front. “That little shit! And I should have done it too. Not that it would have made much difference anyway. Wooden one would still have done a better job than the real thing.”  
“What would they have called him? Joffery the cock-less? King Joffrey of the wooden cock?”

Tyrion flashes her a bemused, and rather surprised look. The wine and warmth have made her bolder than he’s yet seen her, and he’s starting to like it. He lifts his goblet in mock-cheers. “King Joffrey of the wooden cock, long may he reign.”

“Here, here.” Sansa grins, and they clink glasses.

“But then of course, he never had the chance, did he? Poor boy died a virgin.” 

“Poor boy.” 

“Well, better than losing it to his sister.”

Sansa has to bite her lip to keep from bursting out laughing. Then she glances over at Tyrion, and the moment their eyes meet, she can’t hold it in. The laugh comes bursting out from the depths of her chest. Then he’s laughing too, and it may be the loveliest sound she’s ever heard. 

She laughs and laughs, and then finds she can’t stop. She laughs until the muscles in her stomach ache and she can barely draw in a breath. She laughs and laughs; and though it burns, it feels so, so good. 

Every time she thinks they can’t possibly laugh anymore, they catch eyes, and burst into hysterics once more. 

Tyrion is bent over in his chair, gripping his stomach, as great fat tears roll down his rosy face. “You have to stop that. Stop making me laugh. After all we’ve been through, I’m going to die of laughter. And then won’t you be sorry!”

“I can’t”, Sansa gasps. “You’re making me laugh!” 

He pauses at that, his breathing leveling, and a new expression creeping onto his face. Humor is still twinkling in his shining eyes, but there’s something new there as well. 

“Yes, I am.” 

Despite being finished laughing, Sansa can’t quite catch her breath. She studies his face curiously. “What is it?”

“I’m rather proud of myself. I’ve never seen you laugh before.”

She waves him away with a dismissive shake of her head. “Surely you have.”

“No”. He shakes his head. “I would remember that.” 

His eyes are impossibly deep, all pupil and filled with something Sansa can’t quite convince herself isn’t want. She can’t look away. They draw her in, make her want to lean forward, to see what they look like even closer. 

Tyrion swallows thickly, and then clears his throat. He tries very hard to look away but can’t quite do it. 

“Maybe we should have stayed married.” Sansa says, holding his gaze. 

Tyrion lets out a bark of laughter at the reminder of his words from the long night in the crypt. He breaks eye contact by taking a sip of his wine. 

The spell is broken. 

Sansa leans back into her chair, observing him carefully. 

“It never would have worked between us.” He replies jovially. 

“Why not?”

Stroking his beard, he considers it a moment. “You know, that’s an excellent question.” 

She cocks her head and lifts a brow, a smile playing at her lips. 

“Hmmm, lets see… Well, there’s always the old ‘I’m a Lannister, you’re a Stark’.” 

“Yes, there’s that. Except that nobody really cares anymore. There are no more Lannisters to give them a bad name.”

“There’s always time. I’m sure I’ll do a lot of damage in the years I still have left.” Smirking, he swirls his drink thoughtfully. “Ah, or there’s the old ‘I’m technically a criminal for helping Daenerys kill thousands of people’.” 

“Very true”. She tips her glass to him in acknowledgement.

Quiet falls between them. Tyrion stares into the fire and his face sobers. “And then, of course,” He speaks slowly and very carefully. “There’s the fact that I’m a dwarf…” He doesn’t meet her gaze. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her go still. But he still doesn’t look. He’s afraid of what he’ll see, afraid he’ll find that it’s the truth. 

Long moments stretch, until he finally turns his face toward hers. He’s never seen her more serious. Her jaw is locked, and brows knitted together; her eyes bore into him. “Don’t.” Her voice is deathly quiet. “Don’t do that. You know I don’t care about that.”

“You say that now, but you don’t know. They call me a monster, and that’ not for no reason. You couldn’t help-.”

“Stop.” Shaking her head, she presses her lips into a thin line. “I don’t care.”

Tyrion makes a face like he’s about to protest, but she silences him. “You dishonor me by even suggesting it. That has never been an issue for me.” Earnestly, Sansa leans forward closing the gap between them, her eyes darting between his. “I have known the most beautiful men in the world, and I have seen just how ugly they are behinds closed doors. So, believe me when I say, I know a monster when I see one; and you are not.” 

Tyrion searches her face, so close to his now. He searches…and finds no lie there. He wants to say something that will make her understand how thankful he is for the weight she has just lifted from his chest. He wants to reach out and press his fingertips to her face, to caress her cheek in his palm and tell her just how much it meant to him; but he loses his nerve. They both settle back into their seats and take in the fire as it begins to fade, the brilliant golden light transforming into a bed of deep red coals. 

Sansa stretches her feet towards the hearth and downs the last of her wine in one long draft. A trail of the crimson liquid slips past her rosy lips and dips down her chin, leaving a blood-like stain. Tyrion watches the droplet fall, transfixed on the shining liquid as it slides down the delicate, pale skin of her throat and slips beneath her collar. He swallows thickly.

The fire, once a roaring blaze, is now dying. It must be very late, Tyrion realizes. They have been sitting here far longer than they should.  
He sighs loudly, then shakes his head. “I suppose we really should go to sleep.”

“I suppose we should.”

Neither of them makes a move to do so. 

“You’re leaving at early in the morning. And I have my first council meeting with the King to prepare for.” He rests his head against the chairback. “We really should go.”

“Yes, we should.” Sansa tucks her feet up on the seat beside her and relaxes more fully into the velvet cushion.

“You’re not getting up.”

“Neither are you.” 

“I should… but I don’t want to. Because if I go to sleep, the next thing I know it will be morning, and you will be gone. And I don’t quite think I can bare to get up and go about my day, and I know that I won’t see you.” All the while his gaze has been transfixed on the glittering embers, but when he turns, he finds her eyes shining with unshed tears. 

“Tyrion…” She whispers, and her bottom lip quivers. 

But a second later he’s climbing down from his chair and crossing the distance between them. He takes her hand from the armrest and holds it gently in both of his, studying the graceful fingers before his face up towards her. 

“I shall miss you, Sansa”, he whispers. “I shall miss you very much. But I know, when I hear stories of all the wonderful things the great Queen in the North has done, I shall be so very proud to say that I once called you my wife.” He softly lifts her hand and presses a kiss to the sensitive skin of her knuckles. With great determination, he forces himself to release her hand, then smiles at her one last time. 

“Good night, my lady.” Then he turns to go. 

Tyrion has barely taken a step, when he feels a hand close around his arm, halting him in place. He freezes, eyes still locked on the ground, not daring to hope…  
“Tyrion…” Her voice little more than a breath.

A beat later, Tyrion slowly turns. He still doesn’t dare look at her. Her grip is firm on his arm, pulling back to her. 

When he finally dares to glance up, he finds something in her eyes that he can’t quite convince himself isn’t want, isn’t need. He dares chance a glance at her lips, and a moment later her hand snakes out to grasp a handful of his collar, pulling him closer, so close he tastes her wine-soaked breath. They hover there, on the edge. 

“Sans-ah-.” 

Her own lips still his. Every thought, every want, and worry, fades from his mind as it fills with her. 

When the kiss breaks, they are both gasping. He searches her eyes, his own darting back and forth. Everything he feels is reflected there. Her hand releases its hold on his collar; only fist in the thick curls at the back of his neck. More softly this time, she leans in to find his lips again. 

Slowly, desperately; they taste and explore. It has been so long for Tyrion, and Sansa has never learned, but they find a way. One kiss turns into two, and three, and twenty. Each one more sure than the last; each one deeper. 

Tyrion takes her face in his hands, cradling and caressing her jaw with his gentle thumbs. Her hands are desperate. She clings to him, fighting away the space between their bodies. 

Their lips turn frantic. The mouths are open now. Red lips; two sets, interlocked, tasting the wine on each other’s tongues. A bed of red coals glowing on the red of her hair, as he wraps his fingers in the strands. Red is the blood roaring through their veins and their hearts race to keep up with their wanting lips. 

They break away. Wet mouths are open as they exchange gasps. Sansa leans her forehead against his, giving them both a chance to catch their breaths. When her eyes find his again, she finds them full of one silent question. And she’s asking it too. 

Slowly she stands to her feet and takes his hand. Through the shadows the pair sweeps quietly down the long corridors, to Sansa’s room; and Tyrion is surprised to find it is the very same one she had when they had lived here many years ago, the same one where they had spent their estranged wedding night. 

She leads him into the dimly lit room and locks the door behind them. Tyrion’s eyes follow a little too intently as her long fingers twist the key in the door. When she turns back around, she casts him a shy glance before striding across the room. 

“Have a seat.” She tilts her head towards the bed. His eyes follow her gaze and he stares at the freshly made bed several moments before he has the courage to walk over and climb onto the soft mattress. 

Meanwhile, Sansa makes her way to the table in the corner, where a pitcher of wine sits waiting. She fills two of the sleek goblets. 

Tyrion watches her. “Are you sure that’s wise, Sansa?”

Sansa takes a cup in each hand and crosses the room to stand before him. “No. I’m not.” Then she grins and hands him a goblet.

Sipping her wine, she sits down beside him. They sit in awkward silence for several moments. Tyrion can hear his heart hammering in his ears. 

Sansa sets her cup down, determination suddenly taking root inside, and turns to face him. A single, delicate finger lifts and the soft point presses to the scar that has marked his face for so many years. Her eyes shift away from his gaze and to his cheek. Eyes transfixed, Sansa traces the valley in his flesh, up and back down again. 

While she continues to explore his face, his eyes turn to the knot of braids at the back of her head. He catches a small strand of cinnamon locks from her shoulder and traces it back to the root. Carefully, he works with the pins and fastens until her hair falls, shining and curly, around her shoulders. He brushes a few strands out of her face. 

Then suddenly she’s kissing him again. Her hand moves to his chest and begins to press him back, back toward the line of pillows and further onto the bed. All logical thought leaves his mind. All he wants to do is what she wants him to. The goblet falls from his fingers and clatters loudly to the floor. Neither pays any attention. They scoot backward until his back rests against the pillows and her chest is pressed to his. Their kisses grow deeper as their hands grow more bold. One of his small, strong hands finds its way to her waist, and grips tightly. 

“Sansa.”

“Yes”, she breathes. 

“I swore, remember, I swore I would not bed you until you wanted me to. I meant it.”

“It’s a good thing I want you to, then.” She whispers against his parted lips. 

“Sansa…”

She finally meets his eyes. “And I said, ‘what if I never want you to’. Then you said…”

“And, so my watch begins.”

“That’s right.” Sansa looks him deeply in the eyes and caresses his cheek. “And now, your watch has ended.”


	2. His Watch Has Ended

They lay in bed, piles of blankets gathered around them. It is no longer winter, but the winds have still not lost their icy chill. The lights had all flickered out, one by one, until they were left in near darkness, except for the light from the moon filtering in through the billowy silken drapes. 

Sleepy, exhausted, and beyond content, the pair lie side by side, hands intertwined. Sansa’s eyes are heavy and keep threatening to close her inside the sweet embrace of sleep, but she can’t bear to spend their few remaining hours unconscious. She keeps thinking he might have drifted off, but each time she flexes her fingers, he taps the top of her hand with his thumb. 

“I’m still awake, barely.”

Sansa burrows down further into the blankets squeezes his hand. 

“On a scale from one to one-hundred, which of your siblings is most likely to slit my throat if they find out what I’ve done.”

“What you’ve done?” Sansa snorts. 

“Well yes, it is something you do.”

“Seven hells… Well, Jon is probably only about sixty percent likely to kill you. Arya…yes, she’ll one-hundred percent kill you.” 

“Well lets just hope they don’t find out.” Tyrion rubs his free hand across his eyes and yawns. 

“Bran probably already knows…”

Tyrion’s head lifts form his pillow to stare at her. “Shit.” His head flops back down and he groans. “You’re right. Bran definitely knows.”

They lay in silence for several moments. “Do you think he’s watching us right now?”

“Gods… I don’t actually know how it works, but now I’ll never be able to get that out of my head.”

Tyrion suddenly raises his voice, “Bran, if you’re here; piss off!” 

Sansa bursts out cackling. She pulls the blankets up to muffle her laugh and smacks at Tyrion’s bare shoulder. 

When she’s quiet again, Tyrion turns back to face the ceiling. “He’s still here, isn’t he?”

Sansa hides her grin inside the blanket. Then she squeezes his hand and tugs it closer, cradling their clasped hands to her breast. She continues to tug until Tyrion rolls onto his side and scoots close enough for their brows to touch. 

She looks him in the eye, suddenly feeling her heart squeeze painfully, already mourning his loss. Her finger snakes out to, once again, trace the scar along his cheek. 

“You know how I got that scar, don’t you?”

“Yes. I was there when they brought you back. I could barely see your face through all the blood.”

“I was responsible for us winning the Battle of Blackwater, you know.” He shoots her a devilish grin and she rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, I know.”

“Damn scar!” He sighs. “If it weren’t for this scar, I would still be the most eligible man in Westeros. But alas, the gods thought I didn’t have enough curses.”

Sansa leans in to press her lips to the mark, then bites her lip and grins as she says, “Well, I like it.”

“Do you?” Tyrion asks, genuinely surprised. 

“Yes.” She laughs. “Very much. And I also like your beard.” 

He lifts his hand to stroke the rough hair along his chin. “Really? I wasn’t sure if you would. I suppose, I should have asked sooner.” 

The silence settles between them and the weight of sleep presses down. Tyrion’s eyes have drifted closed. Sansa watches his face relax, his golden-tipped lashes flutter. He looks so peaceful. Young again, for a moment. All the lines in his face, smooth as the day she first met him. How long its been… How long will it be before they meet again? 

“Tyrion…”

“I’m here.”

“Don’t go to sleep.” 

His eyes flutter open and he squeezes her hand. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”


	3. Daybreak

A thick layer of silver mist hovers along the top of the deep green sea, blurring away the edges of the ships in the bay until the appear like the hulking shadows of great sea monsters, suspended perfectly still above the glass-like surface. The sun has not yet risen. The sky is a great pale dome of painted clouds above a sky, stuck somewhere between blue and grey. 

Two sets of feet pace slowly down the length of the dock, away from the Red Keep and towards a lone ship lying in wait at the end of the pier, to bare the Northern Queen homeward. The docks are deserted, save the few sailors loading freight for the journey. The hour is too early for even the most adventurous seaman. And yet there are two who stand among the fog and salt, waiting out the dawn. 

They don’t touch, but walk closely, side by side; so close, Sansa’s hand will bump against Tyrion’s arm, a constant reminder of her presence. He purposefully inches closer to let her knuckles graze the fabric of his upper arm as they walk. She glances down to knowingly grin before taking some of the fabric between her fingers and giving it a playful tug. 

They’re nearing the end of their short journey. The ship is only a yard away when the pair stops. Tyrion takes in the vessel; small, as ships go, but sturdy and sound. A true Northern vessel. 

He turns to find Sansa gazing out to sea, her chin pointed north. She’s a striking figure, impossibly tall draped in her long cloak, and angular profile stark against the dismal sky. He can’t help but stare. How could one person be so strong and so, so beautiful? Only the daughter of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully, he thinks with melancholy smile. Only her. 

When Sansa turns, he is still watching her. She grants him a small smile before casting her eyes up toward the Castle above. 

“The King is coming to see you off?” Tyrion asks, following her gaze.

“Yes. He said would come.”

“I suppose that does put a damper on me kissing you goodbye.” 

“Better do it before the Kings arrives then.” She stretches out a hand to graze his cheek and Tyrion leans into her touch. 

Suddenly feeling terribly desperate, he catches hold of her hand and grips it tightly against his chest. “I’d really rather not, if it meant you wouldn’t leave.” He knows she can’t stay, he knows it, and yet…

“We’ll see each other again. We always do.” Her voice ends in a broken whisper. 

“When?”

“There will be diplomatic visits from time to time, and surely the King will send his Hand as ambassador in his place. You’ll come and stay at Winterfell. And every few years, there will surely be council meetings between all the great houses.” 

“Every few years.” Tyrion sighs and shakes his head beneath her fingertips. “I suppose you’re right. We can send ravens. And you have to come back to King’s Landing to visit. Your brother lives here now, after all.”

Sansa watches the hope rise on his face and feels her heart constrict. She swallows. “Not very often, I’m afraid. I can’t leave the North.” Her smile only makes it half way across her lips. 

Seeing the pain etched into her expression, he knows these are all false hopes. Neither of them can make any promises. And it begins to dawn on him that it might be a very long time before they are together again. His eyes fall to the planks at their feet and his chin dips. Better that she not see him cry. 

Then, suddenly, Sansa falls to her knees before him and throws her arms round his neck. Tyrion settles his cheek against her solid shoulder. Pressing back the tears, his eyes fall closed and he breathes in deeply the sent he has only just learned as hers. Will he remember this sent the next time her holds her is his arms? He doesn’t want to forget. 

“Or you could come with me.” Sansa buries her face in the crook of his neck and whispers, her lips brushing the tender skin of his throat. “You could just leave. We’ll get on the ship and go, and not look back.” Tyrion feels, rather than sees, a few of her own tears slip down his neck and beneath his collar. 

“And you think the King won’t send men after us to collect me? He’s just going to let me go?” 

“He can try.” 

Gently, Tyrion pulls back until she’s forced to look into his eyes. He wipes a stray tear from the corner of her eye with the pad of his thumb. He wants to cry himself. He could break down and weep right here. Everyone he has cared for is gone. Varys, Jon; his father, sister, nieces and nephews; Daenerys…Jamie. Gone. Everyone has left him behind, everyone but Sansa. And now, she’s about to go too. 

He takes her face in his hands and presses his forehead to hers. “You know I can’t.”

“I know.”

“I still have work to do. I didn’t choose it, but I owe it to the people I have wronged to try to protect what we have left. I can be of use to your Brother as he begins his reign. He’ll need all the help he can get.”

“I know.” 

“But, maybe not forever… Every watch must come to an end.” She meets his eyes and he holds her gaze, letting his eyes speak the things he can never promise.   
“Maybe, you’d better kiss me goodbye then.” Her lips quirk into a half smile. 

“Yes, my lady.” 

And he kisses her. Her lips taste of salt. Her tongue tastes of wine. He’s is already the most drunken man in the land, but if this were what wine tasted like, he would never again be sober again. What if this is the last time he ever kisses her? He’d better kiss her again, just to be sure. And again, after that. Just once more…  
They finally break away after several moments. They’re both breathing hard. Sansa pulls back slightly, “That didn’t feel like a goodbye”, She whispers against his open mouth. 

“I suppose you can’t leave then.” They both let out choked laughs. Sansa kisses him one last time. It doesn’t last nearly long enough. Then he’s taking her hand and helping her to her feet. 

They stand together, like that, holding tightly to each other’s hands and gazing at the sky as the makes the final push over the horizon. The day has broken. 

Only moments later, Tyrion’s catches sight of the royal party exiting the outside gate and beginning down the long pier towards them. He catches Sansa’s eye and then nods towards the procession; attendants and advisors, and the King sitting in the middle. She turns to see and then meets his eyes again. Tyrion nods, and reluctantly releases her hand. 

The pair watches him come, King Bran the Broken, the least kingly man he’s ever met. He wears no crown, because he has none yet, and the banners bare no sigil. He is not a Stark any longer. He is the One-eyed Raven, but the Raven is not who they chose to be king. He is no one, and yet he is more than anyone. What he truly is, Tyrion doesn’t know, but he hopes that he was not the wrong choice. 

When the King is near enough, Tyrion bows. “Your Grace.”

“Lord Tyrion.” Bran responds, fixing him in with that disconcerting gaze of his. 

“Your Grace, I was just seeing your sister off. I didn’t know if you were going to be here or not.”

“I know why you’re here.” Bran says dismissively. Then he turns to Sansa, “Your Grace.”

“Your grace.” Sansa nods and tries to keep her expression blank. 

The King rolls past them and continues down the dock, the wheels of his chair clanking noisily on the boards. Sansa and Tyrion exchange a look. Then they follow Bran down to where the ship is lying in wait. 

A sailor leans out over the railing as they arrive. “We’re ready whenever you are, Your Grace.” 

“Thank you”, Sansa calls, “I’ll be just a moment.”

She turns to her brother. “Thank you for coming to see me off- Bran.” She’s uncertain of what to call him. They were never close. Not when they were children. Not during their time at Winterfell. But there was always a familiarity, an understanding. Now there’s only a blank wall. Perhaps she should embrace him, should lean over and a press a kiss to his temple in a gesture he will never return; maybe that’s the right to do. But she doesn’t. 

“Farewell, Sansa. I trust you will do well governing the North.” Bran’s eyes loose focus. “I remember what it looked like when the King of the North met his end. The last two rulers of the North lost their heads. I assume you will not.” 

Sansa stares at him. Fighting back nausea, she swallows with some effort, and nods. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Then the turns to Tyrion and her voice softens. “And thank you for seeing me off, as well, my Lord.” 

“Of course. I would have missed it." They exchange a long look, trying to communicate all the things, all at once, that they wish they could say, wish the had time to say. Tyrion wishes he could gather her into his arms and kiss her one last time. But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he extends his hand. She takes it, gripping him desperately. They’ve already been standing there too long, but they don’t care. To hell with it, Tyrion thinks, moving closer. If this is the last time he’s going to see her, he will not waste it. Feeling suddenly bold, he draws her hand to his face and lock his eyes with her. Her eyes are blue as a winter morning. Her lips are still flushed from being melding with his own. Her hair shines in the pale sunlight, a fiery red crown that will soon be replaced with a crown of steel and silver. She is a true queen; of that he is sure. He can let her go, knowing she will do greater things than even she can imagine. 

He kisses her hand, pausing a moment to let his eyes slip closed, to savor her flesh beneath his lips, perhaps for the final time. “Farewell, my Queen.”

Sansa makes her way up the gangway, he long cloak fluttering around her as the sea breeze catches her red hair and casts into a circlet around her. Half-way up, she pauses. For a moment, Tyrion thinks she’s going to look back. But she doesn’t. The Queen in the North climbs to the top, her chin raised and shoulders squared, and boards her ship. 

The men shout to each other as the ropes are pulled and the sails flap open. For a moment, they hang limp, but then next they are swell and overflow with the mighty sea wind. The ship begins to move. 

Sansa appears at the railing. She and Tyrion exchange a smile. This is not the end of their story; they both know it. 

Tyrion watches, his chin pointed North, until Sansa grows small in the distance. He watches until he can barely see her any longer, until she is just a red spot against the grey of the ship. Until he can no longer see her. He watches until the ship becomes only a dark smudge, until the fog swallows it up and he can’t see it anymore. Until the King and his parade have returned to the Castle. Until the mist has cleared from the sea. He watches until the sun in high above him in the sky. 

Then he turns his back on the North and Her Queen. And casts his gaze upon the Red Keep above and city, standing its ruin, around it. He turns his face towards the duty he did not ask for; but must honor. Sometimes duty is the death of love. 

But some things, even duty cannot kill…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to add on one more chapter to kind of wrap things up. Its going to be a short one, but will hopefully end things in a hopeful light.   
> Thanks so much for reading and continue to share your thoughts. All the comments are very sweet and I truly appreciate the conversation.


	4. Home

Winter is coming. A fresh covering of snow has left the Northern landscape a great emptiness stretching onward and onward to the horizon without a break, joining land and sky by painting them the same pale white. There’s an almost magical silence, that comes after the first real snowfall of the season. It hums in one’s blood; makes one pause, longing to take in the silence, discern the secrets its trying to whisper. Its sacred. It is almost as if one can feel the gods eyes upon them; that if they were to turn around, they might catch a glimpse into the realm beyond, as the gods pull back the great veil to gaze down on all of humanity. 

The only smudges of color on the great canvas of winter are the never-fading, never-falling, red leaves of the Godswood trees. And above them, high on the walls of Winterfell, stands their sister, with hair or red to match their own. Snowflakes, as soft as baby’s-breath, flutter down to rest in a circlet upon those amber locks. She wears no crown of silver or steal, but the Winter and the North have crowned their queen.

“Lady, come! Come here! That’s right, good girl.” A great, white and silver Direwolf races along the wall below, bounding through the snow, and then up the stairs to join her mistress on the wall. Sansa bends down to rub the face of the young wolf. “Good girl, Lady.” She grins down into her panting face. “You enjoyed yourself in the snow, didn’t you? Don’t worry. Winter is coming. You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy the cold.” 

Sansa watches as Lady leaves her side to again, become one with the winter landscape. When Arya finally returned home, she brought a wounded Direwolf pup. She left without saying goodbye. And she hasn’t returned since.

Sansa takes it in; the stillness, the fresh biting cold on her face and fingers. Her eyes scan the horizon. The land, as far as the eyes can see, is the free North. Her land. Her words gave the it freedom, but her actions are what will keep it free. 

Suddenly she catches sight of something in the distance; a black spot against all that white. Its moving. It is an animal? Surely is isn’t a rider, not with all this fresh snow and the promise of a storm hanging in the air. But as it draws closer, she can see it is a horse and rider, approaching from the south. 

Curiously, Sansa watches the stranger. No north-man would be foolish enough to ride alone in this weather, she thinks. The noise of stomping feet grows louder as someone rushes up the stairs behind her. “Your Grace.” Sansa barely turns her head to acknowledge the young soldier. “A lone rider approaching, Your Grace.” 

“Yes, I know.” They both watch in silence as the stranger grows closer, until he is only a few yards from the outer gate. The soldier leans out over the side of the wall to get a better look. “Is that a child?”

Sansa’s brow creases as she studies the lone rider. She squints and cocks her head slightly. A child, it couldn’t be…

Suddenly, the Queen gasps. Her mouth falls open and then she is scooping up her long skirts and running along the top of the wall and down the inside stairs. She ignores the startled yells from the soldier above. “Your Grace, wait-.” Your Grace, please! You shouldn’t be running. Your Grace!” He runs after her, catching the attention of the other soldiers on duty, who cry out when they see her race past. But she ignores them all. 

Sansa has just reached the inner courtyard and the final flight of stairs that will lead her to the ground, when she jolts to a stop; because there he is. Two soldiers are leading his horse though the gate. They come to a halt facing away from her. Sansa’s lips part, to call out to him, but she stops herself. She watches as Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, the Hand of the King, her once husband, arrives at Winterfell. 

He looks weary. His shoulders slouch and he leans to far forward in the saddle. His beard is longer and more unkept than she’s ever seen it and there are dark circles under his eyes. New lines have formed around his eyes and on his brow that weren’t there the last time she saw him. 

It was a great, elaborate feast at High Garden, to celebrate the passing of yet another anniversary of the winning of the War for the Iron Throne. They had danced together, with some difficulty, ignoring the amusement of the other Lords and Ladies. He had looked tired, but still beautiful in the candlelight. While the other high-born drank and reveled, the Queen and the Hand had crept away into darkness. They had lain together than night. It had been five years since their first time, and two years since their last. There was much to catch up on, and Tyrion had seemed troubled. She could tell he was growing restless in the new King’s service. 

Only a few weeks later, she sent a raven with a message that she needed to see him, that she had something important to tell him. There was no reply. Sansa waited many weeks, but still he did not respond. She did not try to send a second message. He must know, Sansa had come to realize, he knows, and he wants nothing to do with it.

That had been nearly five months ago. Tyrion has ignored her for five months, and now here he is, all of the sudden, in Winterfell. Sansa wants to call out his name, to rush forward and fall into his arms. That is all she wants. She should be angry. He hasn’t contacted her in five long months! She should be furious. Why has he come? He must have guessed. But why would come all this way, after all this time, and give her no notice or warning? Sansa should be angry, but she is afraid. Her heart squeezes painfully in her chest, beating hard against her ribcage as she holds her breath in anticipation.

The dwarf raises his eyes to take in the castle around him. There is a wonder there. Sansa is surprised to see it. Tyrion releases a breath he looks like he’s been holding for ages and allows a small smile to crease his mouth. “My Lord.” One of the soldiers clears his throat and glances at his companion. 

Tyrion can’t tear his eyes away from walls and towers around him. There is no malice in his gaze. He almost appears relieved; the deep blue of his eyes is tinged with something resembling contentment. “Winterfell looks much better now than the last time I was here.”

“Yes, my Lord. Her Grace has never stopped work on Castle a day since the Long Night ended.” 

“Her Grace, as usual, has done a splendid job.” Tyrion smiles softly to himself, and then turns his face up towards the great Stark banner hanging above him. “There is nothing quite so beautiful as Winterfell in the snow. I have been searching, all across the North, and even the South. But I have not found one place that makes me feel the way this one does.”

Sansa’s heart is in her throat. 

“Searching, my Lord?” The soldiers, once again, exchange confused looks. 

“Yes. I have been searching a long time now, for something I never thought I’d find. But now I find myself here.” His eyes scan the courtyard. He still hasn’t spotted her. 

The two soldiers step forward and help Tyrion dismount. They have just set him on the ground when suddenly they stand up straight and snap to attention, stepping back from Tyrion to fall into formation. They have finally seen the Queen. 

Tyrion’s back is to her. She watches the realization come to him. The small man’s head lifts and his shoulders straiten. There is a moment of deathly silence before he slowly, slowly, slowly turns around. 

Their eyes meet. There are tears in her eyes and her heart years for his long absent touch, but still she holds back, not even daring to hope. His eyes leave hers to take her in. She watches as his gaze moves along her stark profile, down to the unmistakable curve of her stomach that she can no longer hide, no matter how many furs she wears and no matter much she wishes she could. 

When their meet again there is a clarity in his. Tyrion’s lips part, as if to speak her name, but no sound comes. His eyes shine with unshed tears. He knows. A broken sound escapes his lips: half sob, half laugh of joy. He knows. Sansa searches his face, and the look she finds there… the look she finds there… It steals her breath. Wonder. Awe. Pure joy. He knows; and nothing, nothing has ever made him happier. 

Sansa’s stony expression finally falls away. The tears she’s been holding back, run over and paint her cheeks. A smile, so real, so wide it lights up her whole face, breaks from within her. She nods through her tears. 

He returns her smile, matching it in width and joy; and it promises her one thing, that he here to stay, that he is finally home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I truly appreciate all the lovely comments and support.   
> Immediately after finishing the final episode, I began writing this fic, mostly because I couldn't bare the thought that we didn't get any resolution for this relationship. There were too many things to wrap up, that we needed more time. They worked so hard building up Tyrion and Sansa's relationship throughout the season but we got no payoff at the end, and it is probably because they ran out of time. At least, by leaving it open ended, the future is whatever we imagine it to be. I would love to discuss. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this one, the you might consider visiting my other fic, entitled Epilogue, that wasn't meant to be connected with this one, but could very easily be an epilogue to this story.   
> I was listening to "Farewell" from the Season 8 soundtrack while I was writing this. Which you should definitely go listen to right now, if you haven't already.


End file.
